Paint and sweat streaked across Poppy's cheek. Eyes narrowed she took a step back to inspect the strokes of black, white, and navy.
Initially she'd wanted to paint something lighter, in more palatable shades of pink and orange and yellow—a sunset, maybe. But when she sat before the blank canvas, the thought of something so pure and untainted coming from her brush made her sick. Made her want to destroy instead of create.
So she dipped her brush in darkness and watched as it tainted the bright white fabric. As the brightness faded, so did the churn in her stomach.
Tendrils of shadow slithered from the trees silhouetted in waning moonlight. Strikes of yellow stared out, taunting her, reminding her that she lived on borrowed time. They all did.
Each time, the image was the same. Sometimes it was clear, but mostly, it consisted of varied swipes and blurred paint.
She hated it.
More often than not, the result ended up splintered against the cold stone wall.
Tonight, though, she didn't have the energy to care. The paintbrush dropped into the bucket with all the grace of a titan, and Poppy rubbed a hand over her face. Why did she keep doing this? Why did she keep wasting her time painting the same picture over and over again? It was a waste of good paint.
It would be one thing if she actually enjoyed it, but as the days went by, she found herself dreading the long, dark walk to the dungeons.
"Are you gonna throw this one?" Eren's voice croaked from the cell next door. A rustle, metal jingling, then silence.
She stared into the sloppy yellow streaks. "No," she said finally.
"Good," he sighed. "Some of us actually like to sleep."
An apology fell just short of her lips. Her eyes flicked to where she imagined he was beyond the stone, shackled in loose chains until sunrise.
Any time she stumbled into the dungeons after curfew, she found herself twitching at every noise she heard. The crickets as they chirped, the frogs as they croaked, the owls that sang; the clang of metal, the sliding of sheets, the occasional whispers Eren made in his sleep.
When Eren decided to shift—if, she reminded herself, if he decided to shift—she'd be ready for the lightning, the stone crumbling beneath the fist of a titan.
"Hey, Pops," his voice sprung again.
She hummed.
"I gotta stay here," he said, "but you don't. Go to bed before the captain catches you."
She didn't bother reminding him that she didn't abide by his same rules—that she wasn't his comrade, a soldier who fought for the freedom of humanity like the rest of the Scouts. She didn't reinforce the walls as a member of the Garrison. She didn't protect the absolute sloth of a king.
She stared down at the hands smeared with dried paint, opening and closing. With each movement, a new crack appeared; flakes drifted to the ground. She didn't—couldn't—do anything.
Looking back at the composition, she wanted to vomit.
She stood, and with a swift kick to a leg of the easel, it went down with a satisfying crash that vibrated off the walls and rang in her ears. The sound eased the utter discord spiderwebbing in her chest, drowned the sound of Eren cursing her name.
Her eyes grew heavy and she pushed the back of her hands against them while she took in a shaking breath. Why? Gods-damn it. Why did she want to cry every single time? For good measure, she kicked the fallen project and watched as it flipped paint-side down.
Good. At least she didn't have to look at the damn thing anymore.
Eren groaned, sheets rustling, chains clanging as he moved. "I thought you weren't gonna throw it this time?"
The cold metal bars clicked shut as Poppy exited the cell. "I didn't," she said. Warm candlelight flickered down the halls of the dungeon, casting an illusion of warmth where there was only a barren cold.
He groaned again. "For fuck's sake, just leave so I can sleep. Levi's gonna have my ass if I can't stay awake during training."
She huffed through her nose, smirk lilting her lips at the thought. "Sorry, Eren," she said. What a fuckin' liar she was.
Without so much as a goodbye, she left, trudging up the long, dark staircase. Between paint and the cold stone on her bare feet, a chill settled in her body. It started at her extremities—her fingers and toes, until it spread to her chest and stomach.
The narrow staircase opened to a large hallway that ran perpendicular. A soft, muted conversation pilfered the silence, and she turned away from it.
"Oi," Levi called.
Poppy paused, sparing a glance over her shoulder and digging the paint-coated fingers into her arms.
He leaned against the door of Erwin's office, propping it open with his weight. Miche and Hange stood with their backs to her, Erwin's familiar blonde hair peering out from the open door. Looks like the end of a meeting.
"Quit bothering the titan brat." His usual monotone voice tinged with something sharp, cutting. "We need him well rested for Shitty Glasses' experiments."
I smiled, and for the second time that night, lied. "Sorry." She turned back, heading toward her sleeping quarters. She'd had enough for the night.
"Tch," he muttered. "Lying brat."
She didn't answer, didn't respond to the heavy, long footsteps that trailed behind her, waited at her door as she gathered clothes, and followed her into the showers.
Miche always knew just when she needed him.
He swept her up before the door had the chance to close, massive hands cupping the back of her neck and pulling her into a mind-numbing kiss. He smelt of cinnamon and something woodsy, of warmth and comfort.
Poppy busied her hands peeling the shirt from his skin. Poppy was a woman a few words, Miche a man of even fewer. And somehow, despite the communication barrier, they always found each other when they needed it most. Fell into a familiar pattern of finding and helping and loving.
Her lips parted for him, and then they were all teeth and tongues and her back brushed against the cold tile wall as he advanced. Her shirt came next.
Warmth chased away the empty chill that had settled in her abdomen, twisting and clenching and yearning.
She yanked him closer, deft, paint-coated fingers working at his belt. She needed this. She wanted this. More now than before. She didn't know why, but she didn't want him slipping through her fingers. He was hers, and she'd make sure he knew it.
"So pretty," he muttered, moving his lips to her cheek, down her neck to bite and suck and lick. "So pretty for me."
Her cheeks flushed at the praise, fingers threading through his hair as he moved. Lower and lower until the knees of his pants were soaked against the damp, cold stone floor.
He hooked his fingers along the waistband of her pants, looked up at her, and then she just knew. Knew that this had grown into something bigger than they'd intended. Something heavier. Deeper. Something she didn't want to think about as he stripped her, discarding the tight fabric with the rest of their clothes.
She whimpered as his nose grazed her clit. His hands cradled the back of her thighs, kneading the skin as he delved in, a man absolutely starved for her.
Her head dropped back against the wall a little too hard, but she didn't feel it as he tongued and flicked and grazed his teeth. Then, he was bringing her closer, closer until her legs were draped over his shoulders, taking the brunt of her weight.
He was warm and wet, and she was rising higher, coiling tighter, and flooding on his tongue.
Her vision spun and she took a deep breath, vaguely wondering when she'd stopped breathing. His hair tickled the sensitive skin between her thighs. It made her want to cross at the ankles, maybe smother him a little.
Her hand fisted in his hair, drawing him back to look up at her. She couldn't remember a time when she'd looked down on him, her height never really giving her a chance to.
One leg at a time, he helped her down, and she dropped to her knees in front of him, brushing a thumb against his cheek, and telling him, without words, what he meant to her. The darkness cloying at her chest finally abating.
She pressed a long, lingering kiss to his lips, then tapped his hip. "Stand up."
He stood, and she shoved down his pants, pulling them from his feet one by one. His length, rigid and thick as she remembered, sprung from the fabric with precum dotting the slit.
Mindful of the paint on her hands, she used her entire body to guide him into her mouth. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his thighs, leaving streaks of darkness on his skin.
He shuddered as she swallowed him. "So pretty," he muttered again, the sound a whisper between his grunts and her hums. His hands found her hair, brushing it back to gather it in one, giving a sharp tug to guide her.
Her tongue flattened on the underside of his cock as she pulled back, then relaxed her throat and buried her nose at the skin of his pelvis. He jerked, a swear on his tongue, and pulled her off of him.
She liked watching him above her, losing his mind because of her. But it wasn't enough. She wanted more of him. Inside, around, smothering, absolutely obliterating as she fell apart with him.
Hand still fisted in her hair, he pulled her up, used his free hand to thumb her lower lip so he could lick into her.
She responded with a light hum, deep in her throat, that Miche swallowed. He guided her to the wall before lifting her by her thighs again, this time to loosely hook around his hips.
This was them. Chaos. Unyielding. Unfettered. Unhinged.
It wasn't much, but at the same time, it was everything to Poppy.
With Miche, she didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to smother the too strong emotions that threatened to take over her because they were simply gone.
As he slid into her, she didn't want to think of anything except him. How he filled her to the point of splitting her in two. How the way his skin slid against hers and kept her grounded, tethered, sane.
"Such a good girl," he purred against her lips. "Look at you." Pressed a kiss. "Falling apart for me."
She whined, the familiar coil winding in her abdomen.
The gravel of his voice sent shivers down her spine, or maybe it was the cold stone wall at her back, or the way he looked at her through half-lidded eyes, or the sound of flesh on flesh that echoed in the room.
She didn't know. Didn't care. Didn't want to care about anything else but him in that moment.
Less than an hour later, she trudged back to her room, hair dampening the fresh shirt she'd thrown on after her shower. Their shower.
As her fingers gripped the cold metal knob, a stone set in her stomach. Dread stretched across her chest and settled in on her shoulders.
She carved out the thoughts, the emotions, and stuffed them in a box in the back of her mind to gather dust and be forgotten.
She slipped in quietly, tossing the old, wet clothes in a hamper at the corner of the room, and slid into bed.
Dark blonde hair moved, the sheets shifted, and Petra's arm settled across Poppy's stomach. She hummed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Painting again?" she asked.
Poppy hummed in agreement, reaching an arm around to tug the woman closer and bury a nose in her hair. She smelt of sunny days and crisp, autumn wind. Of life and freedom.
Petra didn't respond, her breaths slowing, deepening.
Running a hand over Petra's arm, Poppy stared at the ceiling until sleep claimed her.